


What I Can't Tell You Once

by meanoldauthor



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Soldiers, Gen, Pre-Canon, indoctrination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-10 17:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15954512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanoldauthor/pseuds/meanoldauthor
Summary: "Foot soldiers of the Legion are trained to not have to think for themselves - to have conflict removed from their minds."Related to, but not directly part of, the Mean Old Lady series.





	What I Can't Tell You Once

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Like you some angst, huh.
> 
> This is not a fun fic! This is a look at what it might take to break someone's will and turn them into one of Caesar's pawns--and more than that, what toll it might take on an older child. Read on forewarned.
> 
> Heavy spoilers for both Adal's series through Bury the Dream, as well as Bella Gerant Alii. Crossroads will provide the most useful context for this fic.

He tried to fight when they lined up the injured Walker, drew the knife he’d hidden under his shirt and charged, screaming. They’d knocked it out of his hands, picked him up and threw him in the dirt. He froze at the sound of a gunshot, but he didn’t hurt, so he rushed up, swinging.

The man laughed, a backhand taking him on the cheek. Up again, dodging this time, landing a punch in his gut that didn’t even draw a flinch. The man’s fist was like a thrown brick, and Ches lay on the road, snorting blood from his nose.

He climbed back up again, dizzy, and the man laughed. His armor made him look bigger than he was, almost blocking out the sun, but he beckoned him and Ches obliged. Down once, again, and his face was a mess of tears and blood and dirt as he scrambled up, the rest of the Walker muffling their voices as the Legion worked through the crowd.

At last, he managed to get close, knee up into the bigger man’s groin, making him double over and the rest of them roar with laughter. A hand was around his neck, and he was lifted level with the one in the feathered helmet. Ches grabbed at his arm, barely keeping a toe on the ground to keep himself from throttling, trying to twist free. The man turned him a little, examining him, pulled the child’s scarf from where it had fallen from around his shoulders. He nodded, dropped him, and Ches barely kept his feet. “Stand with the men.”

Ches looked back at his brother with the other children, hands fisted, but too scared to move. The man cuffed him, grabbed his shoulder and shoved him towards the Walker men. They pulled him into the crowd, shielding him from the Legionaries, patting his back and shoulders, _good fight, boy, good try_.

Jeth was among them, his face empty, staring. Ches stood shoulder to shoulder with him, asked through a bruised face and clogged nose, “What’s gonna happen to us?”

His head twitched towards him, not a full turn. “I don’t know,” he whispered. He blinked, looking at him more closely, looked ready to cry as he examined his face. He pulled a cloth out of a pocket, started wiping at the blood. Ches flinched and took it himself, gingerly dabbing at his face. Jeth let his hands drop. “Alam…?”

“He’s not hurt,” Ches said, but there was a pit in his stomach. The Legion men were making them file up again, and he patted his stepfather on the arm. “I’ll try and look after him.”

Jeth’s face was such a depth of pain that Ches had to look away.

His belly gnawed at him, feet dragging by the time they stopped marching. Night had gone somewhere, and the sun shone off the river next to the camp. They were allowed to sit in the shadow of a wall, all in a line. His eyes thick and puffy, he gazed out over the camp, all the red-flag men in armor and skirts, ordering clumps of tribals around. Low hills and washes surrounded it all, and lights with the glass broken. The same camp he and the Walker had attacked, thought they had won, but here they were with twice as many men…

He watched as the Walker women were made to keep going, past the tents and along the river bank, searched a moment for his mother. Remembered looking for her on the Seventy, in the crush of his frightened tribe. Remembered looking up as they started to march…the crosses…

Someone dropped a bundle in front of him, and he shied away. The woman wore in a rough dress, red X painted on the front, the same like the people they had saved. A slave. His mother had tried to explain, watching them huddle in the middle of the band as they walked, but given up, too angry and upset at the very word. The woman gave him a sad look, dropped another bundle at the feet of the man next to him.

He unwrapped it, the smell of overripe fruit rising above the copper tang in his nose. Half the mutfruit was brown and soft, but he ate it core and all, forcing himself to slow down at the chips of jerky under it, alternate it with sips of water from a crumpled plastic bottle. He watched the people moving between the tents, the sheet-metal sheds, lost. There was a ring of bare dirt nearby, another row of tribal men along the closest sheds, a Legionary looming over them. He glanced at the line of Walker, Jeth a few heads down, one of the Legion with a hand on his machete and giving them all a bored look. The children were gone, the same as the women.

A pair of men approached, and the ones watching the tribals straightened. One was in heavy armor, his helmet with a tall red crest, giving the tribals measuring looks. Beside him was a shorter man, one who carried himself less haughtily. His helmet was feathered all in black, his armor sparser than the man from the camp on the road, who had—who had…

The crested man waved his partner ahead, turning back to the center of camp. The black-feathered man ordered the Walker men stand around the dirt circle, the other tribe on the far side, before stepping into the ring himself. “Your lives begin here, men. You have been chosen to be warriors for Caesar’s Legion—no longer shackled by tribe.” He paced the edges of the ring. “You will fight, or you will die. Fall, and you will die. Fight well, and you are given the honor of fighting tomorrow.” He looked at Ches, the Walker beside him. “We have no use for weaklings. Prove yourselves, and you will be allowed to join our ranks, to fight as the most fearsome men in the wasteland under Caesar’s banner.”

He pointed to a man on either side, who were dragged forward by the Legionaries watching, a machete pressed into their hands. They stared at each other, looking at their weapons, the crowd around them.

“Will you fight?” the feathered man asked.

One of them, the stranger, threw down his machete. Wordlessly, the Legionary behind him stepped up, burying his blade in his neck. He dragged him to the edge of the ring, left a trail of blood and the man writhing, and the one in charge pointed to another tribal. He picked up the dropped machete, shaking.

The Walker man, a forager called Burr, lashed out at him, taking him by surprise. Ches watched as they struggled, landing few blows and barely willing to approach. The leader muttered something to the other men, and they shifted, machetes ready.

The fighters redoubled, blood starting to run. Burr stood over the other man at last, sweating, sobbing as he stepped back. “Good work, recruit,” the feathered one said. “Go to the tents. You will be assigned to one.”

Burr followed his pointing arm, staggering off into camp. Another pair was chosen, handed machetes. Ches tried to look away, was slapped on the side of the head. More Legionaries had gathered to watch, forming up behind the prisoners.

The Walker man fell to his knees, holding his innards inside his own body. A Legionary cut his throat rather than let him scream. The other tribal was allowed to leave.

Again. Two entered, one died, one was sent into camp. Ches watched, shaking. These were all men, adults. They’d make him fight. He couldn’t, he was smaller than all of them, weaker, he was going to die…

Once, the fighters were evenly matched, the fight dragging on, neither able to land a killing blow but putting their whole bodies into each strike. They wavered on their feet, and the leader raised a hand, telling them both to go to the tents. Jeth was called, the crowd dwindling. He threw himself into his opponent, frenzied, screaming, and Ches stepped back at the sight. This wasn’t Jeth, he’d never been violent, never…

The other fighter shied back, blocking his strikes. But Jeth overreached, and the machete bit twice in his neck. The Legionary dragged his body to the pile at the side of the ring.

There were only a handful of captures left. The feathered man pointed to Ches, and the machete was placed in his hand. Another man stepped into the ring, the smallest of the strangers, still half a head taller than he. They traded a look, fear and regret, _I don’t want to do this, I must do this, I don't want to die..._

The man put him on the defensive, taller and stronger, blows slamming down on the raised machete. Ches hooked at his ankle with a foot as he raised for the next, making him stumble. He swung with both hands, the blow fouled on the man’s shoulder. He ducked the next swing, sidestepped another, each of them only nicking the other, blood running but neither of them gaining the upper hand.

Desperate, the man kicked out. Ches staggered back, but didn’t fall. He felt the breeze from the machete as he caught his footing, and the stranger overbalanced as the blade failed to bite. Ches struck once, chopping blindly at his body. Again, as he hit the ground and rolled away. Again, as he tried to rise, again, again, until there was blood on him and he was dragged back by the neck of his shirt by a Legionary. The machete was taken, and he was pushed away from the killing ground.

A Legionary pointed him to a tent, and he stepped into the shade, sat. One of the other fighters sat inside, hollow-eyed and bloody. He didn’t acknowledge him. More joined them, but though they looked at each other, they feared to speak. Keeping his eyes down, all he could see was the other man’s blood on his arms, and he tried to wipe it away. It just smeared on his hands, and the edges of the spatters were starting to dry and stick. He scratched at them, frantic—he had just killed a man, he had killed a man so he could live, a man who was just trying to survive, _They’re the kind that kill wasteful, hurt people for fun_ —

A pain on the side of his head, across his ear, made him throw up an arm, half-rising to get away. The other men in the tent refused to look at the Legionary standing over them, lash in one hand. “Be quiet. If you don’t have the spine to handle one day, I’ll kill you here to spare us your whining.”

He sat straighter, some horrible mix of terror and fury sitting in his chest. _Taking them down is a damn service to the world._ Could he do it? Lunge, take the man’s machete before he could react. Would the others in the tent help him? Hold him back?

The Legionary seemed satisfied with his silence, but Ches realized he was staring. The man didn’t break eye contact until he had backed out of the tent.

A slave brought them more water, food, but so little Ches still slept hungry. He woke confused, the sound of the Walker around him slightly off—all the voices were men’s. He frowned at the tent over him, and felt the stinging wheal on his head, and it all came crashing back, the highway, the march, the arena, the _Legion…_

He couldn’t taste the meager meal the slave brought, or do anything but follow the man in front of him as they were returned to the arena. More strangers were there, spattered with blood, in tribal clothes he didn’t know; men already gone through the first gauntlet of fights. They were paired off by the feathered man, a _decanus Justus_. He watched empty, as they were forced to fight, the blood, the death. The weakest, the most reluctant were weeded out, leaving men who struck hard and eager. The decanus called more of the bouts as draws, allowing the men to step back and hand their blades to another.

One such handed his to Ches. Something in him wanted to throw it down, let the Legionaries kill him rather than endure one more minute. Instead, he did what he was told and stepped into the ring. The sooner this was done, the sooner he could leave.

He didn’t give his opponent a chance to size him up. It was fast, him taken by surprise, and the decanus nodded.

They were forced to form into ranks, tired and stumbling. Men who couldn’t keep up, who resisted, or tried to answer anything but _yes, decanus_ , were beaten or lashed to a cross by the river. A call went up to run, and the captures did, keeping up with the pace set by lower-ranking Legionaries lurking behind. A man ahead of Ches stumbled, fell, and the Legionaries descended like crows, yelled for him to rise, struck him with a lash. Ches almost reached to help, but ran past, and he heard the _thunk_ of a machete behind him.

He kept his head down, kept running. Them or him. Them or him. The fear welled up, the exertion, and he tried to keep his feet but finally stopped with his hands on his knees, retching. The crowd flowed around him, and he could hear the Legionaries approaching from the sides. He forced himself to straighten and take a step, and he gritted his teeth as the lash stung at his back, biting back a sound. “Run!” They struck again, and fear and pain helped him stagger back to a jog, keeping pace with the back row, and they fell away.

More collapsed, more were cut down, the Legionaries in their footsteps showing no trace of fatigue. A call from the head of the group, and they turned back toward the river, the sun well past peak. He shook, he was so tired, knew there was no chance of rest.

The captures ground to a halt just inside camp. Forced to line up again, those that collapsed were beaten until they rose, or dragged aside. Barely staying upright, he watched as a downed man managed to struggle free of a pair of Legionaries, finally regaining his feet. The Legionaries nodded, going back to lurk at the edges of the group.

Already tired, they were handed machetes, facing another in two lines. The Legionaries had them drill, trading high, middle and low strikes and blocks. The man across from Ches was sluggish, weak, and he saw the Legionaries take notice. On his next strike, Ches smashed his machete with as much force as he could muster, and the man jumped, seeming to wake. He glanced at the Legionaries watching, and the man swallowed. His next swing was true.

Barely able to lift his arms, and his partner nearly as far gone, someone called for them all to step back. They were ordered to strip and fall into line, handed red and black tunics as they passed. Those with hair long enough were shaved, and the Legionary with the razor rubbed Ches’s scalp, already down to stubble, pushed him aside with an appreciative word that he was too tired to understand. The sense of the touch lingered, and he tried to brush it away. He followed the line to a pair of men handing out boots and armor, and they had to hunt through the pile, finding a small enough set. It still sat poorly, and one of them jerked it straighter, trying to stuff a bit of rag into the gaps.

Ches pulled away. “Don’t touch me.”

The Legionary gave him an annoyed look, and Ches couldn’t hear what he said, the words so much noise. He reached out again, yanking a strap tighter. Ches lashed out at him, swinging for his face, and hands jerked him back. He turned, fighting to throw them off, a dull roar in his ears, heart pounding in his chest. The men in red—recruits like him, now—pushed him along, something hollow and distant in their eyes.

One of them, freshly armored, stepped between him and the Legionary, drawing him along. His words were slow to make sense, _You aren’t so young they won’t crucify you._

They were told to stand in ranks before the crested man, a _centurion_ who looked them over with a critical eye, and nodded. “Well fought, men. You have proven yourselves to be the strongest and fiercest of your old tribes, the only ones worthy of joining our campaign to unify these savage wastes,” he said. He leaned casually on a hammer that must have weighed as much as Ches, and he could feel the other men looking to it, knowing how quickly it could be turned against them. “Look among you. You stand in the company of the finest fighters in the East, the Legion, and we are proud to bring you into our ranks as our brothers.”

Ches looked aside. Near the edge of the group of Legionaries, he couldn’t tell who among them had been Walker, wearing identical tunics and armor, faces covered with bandannas and scarves. Some still had dried blood on their hands and arms, some with fresh, and bandages over what must have once been tattoos. He could feel the tremor in his legs, and he could see how the others shook with fear and fatigue.

“Those of you who perform well, who fight valiantly, who display courage, leadership, and obedience, will be rewarded. Rations, weapons, women…Your deeds will not go ignored, though you must strive to earn them. You are no longer one of these dissolute.” He pointed the head of the hammer at the crosses along the river, the sun behind them throwing grim shadows into the camp. “You have already distinguished yourselves from the weak and the corrupt, shown you are destined to become something greater. Continue to do so.

“Tonight, you are allowed to rest. Tomorrow, your lives will begin anew, serving Caesar’s Legion in full.”

The centurion turned away, and the Legionaries moved among the recruits, sorting them into new tent-groups. Ches was one of seven in his, and he watched the one who had pulled his group aside speak with their armorers, trading a leather hood for a helmet with feathering. He gestured someone to follow as he approached, and Ches’s stomach growled at the smell of food.

A slave ladled out some kind of soup before moving on, something thin and mostly broth, but it was almost enough to make him weep. He made himself go slow, letting his empty stomach get reaccustomed to food. Their leader spoke to them of Mars, who cleansed the world with fire to purify it, of Caesar, who he sent to uplift it. Some of the recruits dared to speak, to ask questions, and Ches tensed. But the man, their decanus, showed no anger. He was almost friendly as he clarified, spoke glowingly of the things they would achieve together. He called the slave to return, their bowls refilled, and he ate until he was almost painfully full. The recruits slowly began to speak between themselves, though were not allowed to use names, theirs or their tribes. Their decanus called them in Latin, or let them fumble at the language themselves.

He kept his eyes closed as he woke the next day, holding on to that one confused second where the Legion was all a bad dream. A dream where he would wake, _could_ wake, and his mother would sit with her arm across his shoulders as he told her about it. She would hug him and tell him it was alright, he was safe, she would look after him…

He opened his eyes as someone called for them to file out, and there was only dread left in his gut. The recruits were issued spears and other supplies, food and water. They marched south down the river, in formation, camping at night. He wanted to scream, at the strangeness and familiarity of it, at that moment on the edge of waking that he knew was going to get snatched away, and threw himself into his training hard to exhaust himself beyond thinking. His superiors approved, and his tent-mates, his _contubernium_ , developed a wary respect. _Calidus_ , his decanus called him, and he didn’t ask what it meant, though he learned to answer to it.

They were brought to wild lands, tribal lands. Were told the tribe there stood in the Legion’s progress, needed to be killed to the last man or forced to surrender, be captured as tribute to Caesar and Mars. As their first action, those who served well were offered a double ration, come night. None asked what would happen to those who were found lacking.

They were put on the front line of the fight, facing down strangers that looked so much like the Walker. Ches cowered. Calidus roared and charged.


End file.
